


anything but destruction

by mymphr



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Addiction, Drug Use, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Illness, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 05:20:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6552634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mymphr/pseuds/mymphr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some part of him knew this was going to kill him, this was killing him, he had to move or this was it, but his legs and his arms were lead, his body was subject to ten times the gravity it normally was, it had to be, it had to be -</p>
<p>(Newt needs someone more than ever. Hermann is desperate and afraid.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. cold

The coldness of snow is biting, piercing, at first. Like tiny razors pressing lightly all over your skin; til the numbness sets in, both relieving and terrifying at the same time. Newt, glassy eyed, stared at his fingers in the sea of white, clenching his fist to find he couldn’t tighten it any more than half way. A high pitched laugh forced itself from him, turning quickly into a hacking cough. He curled up tighter in the snow, pushing it further down his shirt and into his pants. Some part of him knew this was going to kill him, this was killing him, he had to move or this was it, but his legs and his arms were lead, his body was subject to ten times the gravity it normally was, it had to be, it had to be - he pushed his forehead into the ground, absently wondering where his glasses were, trying to push himself up off the floor. He found a sitting position, fingers tracing the snow. The cold in his mouth was refreshing. That laugh again, shaking his body, painful —

A warm hand on his shoulder made him want to jump in fear, sure that this was someone here to hurt him, but nothing in him was working quickly enough to be able to jump. Instead he slowly toppled forwards into the snow, folded over on himself. His head felt like air and helium and blood and sharks, and when someone grabbed his shoulders and lifted him up out of the cold he smiled. His bones ached and he could feel his body shaking harder than it ever had, but it was okay. The arms around him were warm, holding him up even as his legs buckled underneath him, feet moving too slowly, slower than the rest of the world. It was hard to tell what the rest of the world really was. It was emptiness and darkness, pushing in too tight on all sides. 

The hands dropped him, hard, into a chair he didn’t recognise the feel of. Soon enough a blanket was over him, being pushed into the chair around him. The hands stayed, one resting on Newt’s thigh. The hands were talking to him, now. Muttering, shouting, one of the two, trying to get his attention. He opened his eyes, probably, unsure if they’d actually been closed before. A hand reached up to his face, brushing hair and snow away from his eyes and mouth. He slowly lifted one of his own hands, wrapping his fingers weakly around a skinny wrist. He held on as tight as he could, feeling his mind leaking from his ears. He smiled, but he felt warm tears trickle into his mouth. It was all he could manage to squeeze the wrist as his head lolled back, consciousness drifting further away than he’d ever felt it drift. 

——

It was like his ears were filled with water, sound finding its way in but not making it all the way to his brain. Familiar hands were gripping his jaw, shaking him lightly. He tried to pull his head back, blinking his eyes open to find a dimly lit room he half recognised. It was cold. Or hot, possibly. Different parts of his body told him different things and he wasn’t sure which bits to believe. Though his eyes kept drifting shut again, he kept trying to keep them at least half open, searching for focus on the person talking to him. The hands - no, hand, now, singular, the other disappeared off somewhere while he was trying to focus - were warm on his face. He leaned into the touch, pressing the hand between his cheek and his shoulder. 

“Newton.” The first clear word he’d heard in what felt like days. Newt’s eyes struggled to open again, focusing on the source of the voice. 

Hermann’s eyes were red, his face hallowed and serious. He looked more tired than Newt had ever seen. If he was better at reading facial expressions, maybe he’d be able to tell if the shape of his brow meant he was angry, or concerned, or sad, or something else entirely. He ground his teeth, feeling the shiver in his jaw as he did so. 

“Keep looking at me, Newton,” Newt followed his instruction, keeping his eyes fixed on Hermann whenever he could get them to stay open. “You know me well enough to know that I want nothing more than to call an ambulance - but I know you well enough to know that if I did that, you wouldn’t speak to me for half a year.” Newt puffed out a laugh through his nose. It was true enough. Rehab and police and days in a hospital were the last thing he needed. He swallowed, trying to summon words to his mouth. 

“You’re warm.” He managed, nodding to himself. 

“And you’re frozen. How long were you out there?” The room fell silent as Newt tried to remember how to even measure time, how long a day was and how he could feel a minute pass when he couldn’t feel his own fingers - “Okay, so you don’t know.” Newt squinted. Did he say any of that? How long was he silent? In the end, it didn’t really matter. 

Hermann sighed, moving his fingers where they were still wedged between Newt’s jaw and shoulder. His thumb stroked along Newt’s cheekbone, wiping wetness that could have been ice or tears or something in between. 

“You have to stop this. It’s going to kill you.” 

“Which bit?” 

Hermann stared at him. Something in his eyes felt like it pierced a hole in Newt’s chest. 

“All of it. The self destruction. I know it’s gone further than weed and alcohol, Newton, I’m not stupid. Hurting yourself isn’t restricted to razors. Nor is it restricted to what you do do - I know you’ve been offered help, and you refuse it. You have to stop.” 

Newt took a breath, shaky, burning his throat. He could feel tears flowing again, unsure whether it was from emotion or tiredness. 

“I know,” he muttered, eventually. “I know.”

He felt a hand take his, pulling it out from under the blanket. Fingers traced the tattoos across his knuckles, down the back of his hand, round his wrist. Old tattoos, marred by new scars. He could feel the hesitation as Hermann’s touch ran over track marks and cuts, a story of destruction knotted amongst the ink. 

“You need help.” 

Newt flinched at that word. ‘Help’. He’d never been one for self pity. Or self anything-but-destruction, really. Self help, self care, self love, it all struck him as undeserved, unfair, too much work for not enough pay-off. If he felt sad, he’d replace it with anger or alcohol or a fight in a bar. He didn’t need therapy. He didn’t need help. Yet something deep in his gut knew Hermann was right, and that was what hurt the most. 

“Hermann, I don’t…” he shuffled in the chair, his head spinning as soon as he moved. “I can’t see myself like… that. It’s…” He squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately to think of the words. “I’m Newt. I’m fire and passion and sparks and pain. I’ll - I’ll stay awake for three days, and do cocaine on the third to get through the night, and be fine the next week. That’s me. Not a shuddering mess in a hospital bed being fed medication to keep me from killing myself.” He took a sharp breath, rolling his eyes back in his head. Fuck, the energy it took just to speak. 

“You know you can’t do that. You know that. You’re a biologist, Newton!” The hand holding his squeezed, tight, anger and love crushing his fingertips. “You’re going to kill yourself. This isn’t happiness.” 

“Maybe I don’t want happiness.” 

Hermann’s hands reached back up to Newt’s face, gripping it tightly. He pressed their foreheads together, closing his eyes with Newt. 

“We both know that’s not true.” 

Newt could feel the lump in his throat, the wetness in his eyes, a warmth in his chest begging to be released. He didn’t give it permission, but it found its way out anyway. Hermann pushed him over in the armchair, wrapping the blanket around the two of them and letting Newt rest his head on his chest ’til the sobbing stopped. His fingers gripped Newt’s shoulders tighter than he’d ever gripped anything before. Maybe he could pull him back into reality if he held tight enough. 

As they sat there, Newt gripped tightly in Hermann’s arms, shuddering, both of them felt the shockwave of a memory. A year, maybe more, had passed, since Hermann held Newt on the floor of the lab, willing him in panic to wake up. Newt knew, then, that he was doing something for the good of the world. He poured himself into it. When Hermann told him it would kill him, he responded “Yeah, but I’ll be a rockstar.” 

Hermann dug his fingers in tighter to Newt’s bicep.


	2. storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> desperation is a powerful thing.

It was a shock waking up in a bed. Newt’s head felt like it was filled with clouds and rain, pushing out in all corners of his skull. He twitched his fingers, tugging the sheet underneath him between them. It was cool, fresh smelling. He felt anxiety rising in his stomach, fragments of memories floating through the cloud in his brain. It should have been nice, waking up in a bed, clean and warm and comfortable, but he knew it meant something was changing. Someone had found him out, and someone was going to try and fix him. 

This somehow made the comedown, hangover, whatever, feel worse. His usual routine of waking up fully clothed hanging off his couch with eyeliner smeared across his face didn’t feel great, but it felt fitting. A top up, a snort of something small, and he was set. Somehow it didn’t seem like that was going to happen today. 

Slowly, so as not to set off a storm behind his eyes, Newt rolled onto his back, grunting. He heard wonky footsteps padding towards him. 

Hermann, coffee clutched in one hand, cane in the other, appeared by the bed. His eyes were sunken, shoulders slumped. The lines in his forehead looked like they’d been in the same position for days. Yet, he attempted a smile - which, for Hermann, meant the corner of his mouth twitching upwards for a second. 

“You’re awake. It’s one.” 

“Earlier than normal.” Newt spoke, voice trapping itself in his throat at the end of the sentence. He coughed, feeling sick just below his throat and begging it to stay there. 

Hermann, grimacing, lowered himself into the seat by the bed. Newt connected it, in his brain, to the place he fell asleep last night. He pushed himself up on one arm in the bed, giving himself a better view of Hermann. 

“We have to ta-“ Hermann began - 

“You know you have - you have beautiful eyes.” 

Hermann stopped. He stared at Newt, who stared right back. Newt’s face was soft, something sad just under the skin. 

“Newton, that’s not -“ 

“It’s true, though. It is. And if - if I’m going to go out like this, I want you to know that, first.” Hermann frowned, putting his coffee down on the floor next to him and leaning towards the bed. 

“You’re not ‘going out’ like anything.” 

“I know. You won’t let me.” He smirked, staring down at the bed sheets. “But trust me, Hermann. If you’re going to be keeping an eye on me for however long, it’s gonna get real nasty. I’m gonna - I’m gonna yell at you, and I’ll hurt you, and you won’t even know how beautiful you are.” He was crying, now, again, maybe, something clouding his vision and cracking his voice. It made him angry. The sheets he had grabbed in his hands were twisted around his fingers, slowly numbing them. 

“You know I want to take you to a hospital. I can’t help you here, Newt. I can’t.” 

“You have a PhD. You’ll manage.” 

“Not in mental health.” 

Newt was silent, twisting the sheets around his wrists, watching the veins in his hand start to pop. He felt his stomach twist, too, when he thought of what he wanted right now. As he stared down at his hands, he heard Hermann leave and return again in what felt like seconds. A glass of water knocked against his arm, urging him to take it. When he took it and started drinking, it seemed impossible that he hadn’t noticed how thirsty he was before. The cold of the water seemed to seep into his bones, ache setting in from his spine down to his toes. He shuddered, grabbing the cover and pulling it around himself. His eyes shot up to the clock on the wall. About half one. 

“You should be at work, right?” 

“Yes.” 

Silence. 

“You’re not at work.” 

Hermann turned, locking eyes with Newt for the second before Newt shot his gaze to the floor. 

“I can’t leave you here.” 

More silence. Starting to feel tight, the air an imagined pressure on both of their chests. 

“You can, I’m not a crimi-“ 

“Newton.” 

Newt lifted his gaze from the carpet, dragging it up to Hermann’s eyes. When he saw the pity, he felt the wall building itself around him. He had no control over it. His shoulders tensed, teeth grinding. 

“I’m not a criminal, Hermann.” There was an edge to his voice, now. 

“I know. But you’re desperate, and you’ll only get more so. I can’t leave you alone 12 hours after finding you high in below freezing temperatures.” 

Newt took a sharp breath to retaliate, but stopped himself. Not even he was sure if it was to gain trust so he could eventually flee, or if he genuinely understood what was being said to him. He supposed it didn’t really matter. He stared down at his hand, the sheet still twisted tightly around his wrist. His fingers were numb, now, the veins on the back of his hand visibly raised under the skin. He ran the nails of his other hand over them. As he lay down, dragging the cover back over his curled up body, he smiled. 

Hermann watched him, silently. He looked smaller than ever. Without his military boots, clunky belts and bracelets and leather jackets, he was bony, pale, more fragile than he would admit. Though, perhaps, that depended on one’s definition of fragility. His bones might break when hit hard enough, but he would never admit to pain. Hermann slumped down onto his couch, forehead on the armrest. The lump in his throat wanted him to sob. He settled for silent tears.


	3. alone

Newt woke up halfway out of a cave filled with something sinister, dark goo dragging at his ankles, starting to swallow him up, pulling him back until he was suffocating - 

He fell to the floor with a thump, bedsheets twisted round his legs and up to his neck. They were damp with sweat, though he was shivering, clutching the sheets in trembling hands. It was hard to tell if he was hyperventilating or just not breathing at all. It took a second to slip out of the panic of the dream into the panic of reality - dark, alone, cold, wet, on an unfamiliar floor in an unfamiliar room, which spun wildly around him. He took a sharp breath, trying to let air into his lungs and figure out what was going on. 

Suddenly, light burst into the room, sending shooting pains straight to his temples. He curled up tighter with the bed sheets, covering his eyes. A hand on his shoulder - too familiar, too cold, it stung - he spun, twisting the sheets around him and tangling himself further, but his fist made contact with something. After a moment of silence, neither of them moving, Newt shot up. He still couldn’t breathe, and the world was rapidly rocking from side to side, but Hermann, kneeling on the floor in front of him, dragged him back into some semblance of reality. 

Words, more like noises, started tripping from his mouth without his permission, apologies or fears or something else entirely. He was crying again, and his chest hurt and something was wrapped around his throat but Hermann leaned in, untangling the sheets from his shoulders and pulling a blanket tight around him instead. 

It took longer than it should have for Newt’s breathing to return to something like normal. He looked up, eventually, to see Hermann sat in front of him, watching him intently. Only then did he realise the vague noises he’d been hearing for the last few minutes were words Hermann was speaking. Calming, gentle words. He almost started crying again at that realisation. There was a hand on his knee. A single point of contact. A warmth, a pressure, telling him that someone was there. Someone was there, because he wanted to be. Because he gave a shit. He did start crying again, then, even as one of his own hands slid down out of the blanket and grabbed the hand on his knee with all the strength he had. 

“Thank you.” was the last thing he said (choked, really) before Hermann helped him back into bed. He didn’t make a big deal out of it, but Newt felt his presence remain next to him as he fell back to sleep. 

——

When he woke, there was a rising panic in his stomach. It took a moment for him to realise what it was - then he began to retch. He gritted his teeth shut, scrabbling to get up and find a bathroom, or a bin, or something other than the bed. As his feet hit the floor, his vision went white, the nausea rising right into his mouth. He toppled forward, feeling himself start to throw up even as he fell - his ears were ringing and he was spluttering hopelessly, arms trembling as he attempted to hold himself up. He spat onto the floor, trying to rid himself of the acidic taste in his mouth, and let himself fall sideways into a heap on the ground. It was then that he realised no hand had come to his rescue, this time. 

He called out Hermann’s name, weakly, voice trembling more than he’d expected. He tried again, and saw Hermann’s head rise from the bed before he’d even finished saying his name. 

“Shit,” Hermann muttered, jumping up to kneel on the floor next to Newt’s head - pointedly avoiding the side stained with sick. Newt closed his eyes, groaning as he let his head fall back. Hermann’s fingers, light, shaky, brushed hair, stuck with sweat, from Newt’s forehead, feeling his temperature as he did so. There was silence between them, for a moment, Newt trying to stop the spinning in his head, Hermann trying to figure out where to go from here. 

“You’re burning hot, Newton. I think - perhaps a cold shower, or a bath. You’d feel better.” 

Newt just nodded half heartedly, not really listening to what was being said. His mind was too busy traversing mental maps, figuring out which dealer lived closest, who he could get something, anything from before tonight. 

Carefully, like he was lifting a baby deer, Hermann hooked a hand under Newt’s neck, pulling him up into a sitting position. Newt opened his eyes, now, realising he’d have to try and help a little to avoid breaking something. They locked eyes, Newt nodding in silent permission for Hermann to keep going. The movement to his feet felt more difficult than anything he’d ever done, but the trek to the bathroom was surprisingly easy. It felt like he was floating, dragging his feet through clouds of helium. He sunk onto the closed toilet, the cold porcelain like silk on his back and through his jeans. 

“Newt,” he opened his eyes in response, the world finally seeming to stop spinning. He raised his eyebrows, silently encouraging Hermann to continue. “Can I…?” Hermann’s hands on his torso, gently pushing at the bottom of his shirt, but his eyes were anxious. Newt just nodded, wondering why he was even bothering to ask. If the shirt wasn’t fucked before, it was now. Ripped, stained, drenched with sweat. 

He’d probably still wear it again. 

Then, his jeans - it took Hermann what felt like hours to unbuckle them for him, drag them down his legs, and pull them from his feet, but he managed it. After a moment of hesitation, he left Newt’s briefs on. Newt leaned back on the toilet, allowing the coldness of the tank to sink into his skin. He watched Hermann, leaning over the bath to run the tap, finding the right temperature. The guilt in him was like a knife in his gut, twisting sharply every time he looked at Hermann. He looked so ragged, exhausted and pained and frightened - and Newt knew it was his fault. If he could find something to ease this hell, it would make Hermann’s life so much easier. He could even see Hermann’s limp, more exaggerated than normal, the grimace in his face whenever he sat down or stood up. The stress making the pain shoot so much sharper through his hip, no doubt. 

Hermann spun round while Newt was silently shaming himself, bending down to look him in the eye. 

“Do you think you’ll be sick again?” Newt just shrugged. Hermann stood straight, again. “I’ll get a bucket.” 

A sadness washed over him as he watched Hermann leave the room, a feeling like weights tied to his wrists and his ankles, hopelessness pulsing in his chest. He felt like shit. He’d known he was going to feel like shit, but he hadn’t fully prepared for it. And he knew, he knew that the one thing he wanted, he could get. He could. He always could. Something in the very back of his head had been picking a hole, trying to remember what Hermann’s pain prescription was, if it was oxy or codeine or anything he could take. He didn’t want to take Hermann’s things, but in the long term it would be better, right? Better for Hermann. 

He heard a bucket drop down next to him and flinched, looking up. The bath was half full, now, and Hermann turned off the water. He held out a hand to Newt, helping him stand and step into the bath. Newt couldn’t help giggling. Hermann’s cold hands were on his shoulders, his back, trying to stop him falling - but simultaneously anxiously trying not to touch his bare skin too much. It was sweet. 

The water was the best thing he’d ever felt. It was soft, trickling down his chest and swimming around his neck. He let his eyes close, sighing in relief. Perhaps a ‘thank you’ found its way out of his mouth, but he couldn’t be sure. Though they hadn’t drifted for a year (they’d been expressly forbidden when they both spent the several days after their drift barely able to walk and scared the shit out of everyone), Newt thought he still sometimes accidentally dropped thoughts into Hermann’s head instead of saying them. 

He slid down far enough in the bath for the water to cover his mouth and ears, just his nose and eyes poking out of the water. There was something both unsettling and so extremely calming about the rumbling silence under the water. It felt heavy on his head, but so calm, so empty, like space surrounding him. He visualised the water filled with stars around him, bathing in a void. He smiled. Then he accidentally inhaled water, and spluttered hopelessly as he shot back up out of the water, coughing. Hermann was watching him, eyebrow raised. 

“Feel better?” He asked, expression sarcastic, but his voice betrayed his concern. 

“I guess.” 

Newt could feel Hermann’s eyes scanning him, looking through the faded ink across his skin at the grazes and yellowing bruises underneath. Perhaps he should have been ashamed. It felt more like something inevitable. Hermann finally seeing this, the messy sides of him. 

For a long while, Newt just lay in the cooling water, letting it wash over his skin, soaking off dried blood and dirt, sweat and perhaps a little sick. It felt good against his burning skin. He almost forgot Hermann was there, sat on the toilet next to the bath, watching him enough to make sure he didn’t drown himself or vomit into the water, but remaining silent. Then, breaking the silence, Hermann stood with a grunt. Newt half opened his eyes, looking up at Hermann’s hesitant stance. 

“I’ll just be a second. Will you be okay?” 

“I’m not a baby, Herm.” Newt grumbled, closing his eyes again. He listened to Hermann’s wonky footsteps walking away, then the distant sound of him rummaging through drawers. He realised he didn’t really care what Hermann was doing and submerged most of his head back in the water, trying to allow it to soak out the ache behind his eyes. He experimented with finding a position with just his nose poking out, trying to let the water sit on his eyes, but quickly realised he couldn’t do that and be able to breathe at the same time. Instead, he sat up and leaned forward, sinking the top of his head in the water so that his eyes were underneath but his nose and mouth were pressed towards his chest. Close enough. 

Hermann limped back in, and Newt could practically feel the anxiety radiating from him. 

“Listen, Newt, I…” Newt didn’t move, but he frowned under the water. “I have to go out, for a second - I don’t want to, understand, but I was due to pick up medication two days ago, and, well…” Newt imagined Hermann gesturing towards him, expression fatigued. 

“I understand.” Newt mumbled against his own chest. “Go get it. You shouldn’t be in pain.” 

There was silence as Hermann debated whether he should just get someone to pick it up for him, but Newt knew very well that it was a restricted medication, no one else could get it for him, and he’d have to go. He’d have to. An awkward hand patted Newt on the back. 

“I’ll be quick. Just stay there, or get into bed if you think you’re going to fall asleep. You can borrow a shirt. And underwear. Okay?” 

“Mmm. Yeah. Okay.” 

A few minutes of Hermann pottering about, finding his coat and hesitating by the door and then the door was closed, and he was gone, and Newt lifted his head. 

Alone. 

Was that good or bad? 

Perhaps both. 

Almost immediately, Newt’s mind shot to his phone, in the pocket of his jeans. The wealth of people, connections, in his contacts. Anxiety rose in his stomach until he almost threw up again, and Hermann’s anxious voice in his mind, “You’re desperate.” 

But then his body was moving without his permission, his dripping hands reaching for the skinny jeans in a pile on the floor next to the toilet. He wiped his hands on the inside out jeans, then dug a hand into the pocket. The phone didn’t respond at first, and he had a moment of panic - of course, it’s dead, it’s been three days - but then he held down the lock button and it turned on. He held it over the water, an ill-advised position for a man with shuddering hands and a loose grip at best. It took what felt like a year to turn on, but when it did, he opened his contacts. 

They were in a weird order. He’d turned off alphabetical, somehow, and had them in order of most to least used. Hermann was at the top, thanks mostly to voicemails left hours after an argument to bring up another point he’d remembered. Next was his mother - more her doing than his own. And then begun the list of cryptic names. ‘Morpheus’ read the third from the top, a renowned opiates dealer who Newt had only spoken to in real life once before he got busted with a room full of methadone. Then ‘something inconspicuous’, a friend who dealt him weed, and coke sometimes, named such by herself as a joke. And then someone who maybe could actually help - ‘Caligula’. Newt couldn’t really remember why she was called that, but he was sure it had some deeper meaning at the time. 

Without really thinking, he’d hit ‘call’ next to her name, and his phone was up to his ear. There was water getting in the speakers but he couldn’t bring himself to care. She picked up almost immediately. 

“Newt?” she was inquisitive, confused - though she was fifth most contacted in his phone, that didn’t mean they talked often. It took him too long to respond. 

“Uh, yeah, um. Yeah.” 

“You sound like shit.” 

“Thanks.” 

“I mean it.” 

“Yeah, well. Listen, I need something. Don’t care what. Fuckin’ morphine, oxy, suboxone, whatever. Something to either get me high or make me stop feeling like this.” 

“I assume ‘this’ is total shit, right? You go cold turkey? Doesn’t sound like you, kid.” 

“Yeah, well it wasn’t my choice.” 

“Ah, shit. The family find out?”

“Something like that.” 

“Alright. I’ll get you something. Where do you wanna meet?”

“Can you come to the house I’m at? ‘cause I’m kinda worried I’ll black out if I move too far, and I gotta be quick.” 

“Text me the address. And say it’s a party or some shit in the text. Gotta be subtle, right?” 

“You’re using a burner phone and you only text drug addicts. I don’t think there’s anything subtle about you.” 

“Fair point. See ya.” 

And then she was gone, and he was alone again.


	4. sick guilt

When Hermann got back to the apartment building, Newt was crouched on the steps up to the door, smoking. 

Hermann stopped in front of him, a small paper bag in one hand, cane in the other. Newt looked up, squinting in the sun. 

“You shouldn’t be smoking.” 

“And yet.” 

They stared at each other for a moment, Newt’s darkened eyes boring holes in Hermann’s head. 

“I just wanted some time to sit and think out here for a while. By myself.” 

Hermann didn’t move. 

“Please, Hermann.” 

With a sigh, he took a step toward the door, entering his code to get in. 

“Come back up when you’re done. I’ll make you lunch.” Newt nodded in response, looking down the street as he exhaled a plume of smoke downwind. He watched it dissipate, and heard the door shut behind him as Hermann walked inside. 

And then he heard it open again, and turned round abruptly, frowning. Hermann was rustling in the little bag in his hand, looking for something. 

“I almost forgot. Look what I found.” Newt’s glasses, dirty and scratched, in Hermann’s hand. Newt grabbed them, and slotted them onto his nose. 

“Oh, man. I forgot how sharp shit looks with these on.” 

Hermann smiled, a little. “Might help with your headache, too.” He nodded and then pushed the door back open again, entering the apartment building for good this time. 

When Newt turned his head, he jumped. How long she’d been there, he didn’t know, but Hermann didn’t seem to have noticed. She was good at blending in - despite her deep pink mullet, neck tattoos, and penchant for dressing in black lace. Newt blew smoke in her face. She didn’t cough. In fact, Newt was sure he saw her inhale. 

“That your boyfriend?” she leaned on the wall next to Newt, smirk on her face. Her dimple piercings shone in the sun.

“Maybe. Dunno.” Newt exhaled one final time, then dropped the cigarette on the floor to crush it under half-laced combat boots. “What’d you bring?” 

“What I could find on short notice.” She held out a gift bag, pink and shiny, a label stuck to the side reading ‘Happy 6th birthday!’ Newt raised an eyebrow. Inside, when he looked, he saw three plastic bags. He looked up at her for an explanation. 

“Xanax, tramadol, and all the oxycontin I had left at home. The xanax’ll help you stay chill, and about 200mg of tramadol should have you pretty okay for a while. There’s something like 2000 there. I would have just given you a bunch of oxy but what’s in there is all I had.” 

Newt nodded, swallowing down anxiety and guilt. “How much?” 

“Leave it for now. You look like shit. Just do what you need, pay me later.” He nodded again, and stood up. 

“Thanks.” 

She nodded, now, and turned abruptly. He watched her walk away, and wondered whether she was a saving grace or a hand reaching out of the dirt and dragging him to hell. 

——

Newt took a moment at the foot of the stairs to take the little plastic bags out and slot them into his slightly damp jeans. The pink bag was inconspicuous enough out in the open, but would look pretty weird to Hermann. He left it lodged under the stairs. He was about to take a step when he stopped. Should he be bringing these things into Hermann’s home? Should he just take something here, now, and leave the rest under the stairs? What if someone took it? He couldn’t risk that. But he couldn’t risk Hermann finding it, either. He’d just have to keep it on him all the time, or find a way to make Hermann let him go home. He knew he couldn’t leave now, by himself - he was barely balanced enough to be sure he’d make it up the stairs. But now his brain was misfiring and getting out of control, so he let his body start pulling him up the steps, trying not to think about consequences and repercussions and such. 

He had to knock on Hermann’s door to get in. Maybe Hermann had been standing right behind it, waiting, because he was sure he hadn’t even finished knocking when it opened. Hermann guided him in, nudging him towards the couch, but Newt took a different turn, towards the bathroom. 

“Gotta pee.” Hermann nodded, but Newt felt like his eyes were burning a hole in his back as he wandered to the toilet. He closed the door behind him. 

The bath was still full - he’d just stepped out, half dried himself, and dragged on some of Hermann’s clothes and his jeans, not bothering to drain it. He wondered about getting back in. Too much effort. Instead, he closed the toilet seat and sat down, carefully tugging the little plastic bags from the pockets of his jeans. He leaned back, placing the bags on his knees and crossing his arms. For a moment, he just looked at them, as though they’d tell him what to do if he waited long enough. The silence of the bathroom was piercing, making his decisions feel so much heavier than he wanted them to. 

Pros: taking something might get rid of the headache, the grogginess, the light-headedness, the lack of balance, the mild hallucinations, the nightmares, the sweating, the fever, the generally feeling like death. Cons: if Hermann found out he’d be heartbroken, and probably sent Newt to rehab if he hadn’t already made plans, and Newt knew somewhere deep down that he was on a path to self-destruction and that probably he should stop. But, pros: if Newt seemed like he was okay then Hermann would feel better and be less frightened, so if he could just keep the reason hidden and pretend like he was just starting to feel better… 

But, fuck, Hermann was no idiot. He was a genius, actually, and sometimes Newt had to remind himself of that - it would take a lot to hide things from him. But he was a genius too. If a very sick, fucked up genius. He tried to remember which of the bags was which, and opened the top of the one with the most pills - tramadol, he was pretty sure. For a second he wondered if it would be worth snorting to feel it faster, but quickly realised that a. he had nothing to crush it up with, b. that would make the possibility of Hermann knowing much higher, and c. it probably wouldn’t be worth the pain to feel it a little faster. So, with shaking fingers, he dug out three of what he assumed were 50mg pills, and held them up in front of him. She’d said 200, but he could always take more. He dropped the bags on the closed toilet, and stood, throwing the pills into his mouth. He ran the cold tap and shoved his head under it, swallowing fast. 

And then, he just… stood. For what felt like an eternity. He didn’t feel anything from the pills, yet, but the hit of guilt and sadness he’d felt in his stomach as soon as he swallowed them made him light-headed. Almost enough to convince him to tell Hermann, get help, give in and give up and admit to being a fuck up, but he couldn’t. Not now. So he grabbed the bags, shoved them back into his pockets, took a piss, and left the bathroom.

**Author's Note:**

> more to come, if wanted
> 
> tagged 'gen' as well as m/m because i don't think this is necessarily About them being romantic/sexual/whatever. it is about them needing each other desperately, certainly, and i view them as undoubtedly soulmates, but. 'tis your choice as to how to read it.


End file.
